


First Kiss

by sincerelywrong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 21:05:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelywrong/pseuds/sincerelywrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sherlock forgot something about feet. john inadvertently reminds him. NOT FOOT FETISH god this is an awful summary</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> this is the fault of anon Ashleigh Kinklock got

In the afternoon sunlight, Sherlock Holmes examines his feet.

They are not bad feet, as feet go, he is sure, but what do feet do that is so special? He knew once, but had deleted it, a wish for something for a foot to do. He looks through the files in his mind, information on how shoes wear, how prints change with the weight of a step, how toe fungus can be detected and how that can lead to a man in the hospital ward with a particularly unpleasant infection and careless DNA under his fingernails.

No, he cannot find the memory. He had buried it away, somewhere dark and dry and covered in brain dust, where he could not now retrieve it. What use it had, he now figured had been slight, if he had moved it so far away from easy access.

He slips from the sofa, silk dressing gown making a satisfying sound, and he bounces on his heels—well formed, and free of calluses, as he had just rubbed them off last week.

The fresh skin still sensitive to the floor, he strides around the coffee table, and peers down the hall to the bathroom, where John is showering. He leans back, and breathes, noting each breath, and how his head spins a bit, then swerves into the kitchen.

 

When John comes out of the shower, tea is waiting for him, as is Sherlock.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, ruffling his wet hair absentmindedly, “that’s nice”

Sherlock smiles, blushing without thought, then cursing his own blood for defying him.

“Yes, I thought it might be, the hot water was running out I know, and I figured… you might like something warm, out of the shower.”

John smiles that warm, blooming smile, that only since yesterday Sherlock could feel was truly for him.

It had been a day, yesterday had.

Or, the evening had been. The day was a case, exciting, but not unusual, until the lovers were reunited after the chase and the gun had been pried from the culprits fingers, and the women had cried and touched each other’s faces, and begged to never be separated, though unmarried, to go into witness protection together, or not at all, what death may come.

Sherlock had turned a very unfunny shade of pink, and John had swallowed and straightened his back, and they were silent the entire cab ride home. Back at 221B, still silent, they had stiffly moved about the flat, finding leftover Chinese, and chairs to sit on, they did not say a word.

When John was just about to go to bed, Sherlock managed a quiet “John”, and that was all John could take.

They had collapsed into each other, and Sherlock felt he heard John sob. They had clung to each other, and Sherlock felt himself rock them back and forth. Whispering each other’s names like lullabies.

They had stayed that way until they fell asleep, unable to let go, as if in the absence of touch, they would lose each other, and any second of that time would feel like another two years of waiting.

In the afternoon that next day, Sherlock woke up, and John had been in the shower, and Sherlock uneasily fled to the living room, to think.

Now they sat across the table, sipping their tea, and quiet once more. But this quiet was fuller than last night’s quiet, and buzzed with an energy Sherlock felt joy in.

“John,” he finally managed. John looked up from his tea, eyes wide and inviting, and he smiled ever so slightly, and Sherlock could have kissed him.

He stammered. “John, what do you think of my feet?” Stupid stupid. Why.

“Your feet?” John leaned and checked underneath the table, as to see that the feet in question were still here. “They’re proportional to you.” He said, smiling again. “And you get use enough out of them.”

“Good feet?” Sherlock asked, still unable to make such prose as he would like to, disarmed by John’s smile aimed finally 100% at him.

“Of course. Great feet.” John replied, and sipped his tea.

“Oh.” Sherlock murmured. He squirmed in his seat, watching John.

When John finished his tea and stood, Sherlock bounced up at the same time.

John snorted a very small chuckle back, and strode to Sherlock.

“Hey, c’mere.” He gestured, and Sherlock looked at him in confusion.

“We are… standing right next to each other?”

“No, bend down, you tall git” John said, deep in his throat. Sherlock obliged, and was suddenly much pinker, and could see John’s eyes much clearer. They breathed, noses close, and John pulled Sherlock even closer, hands resting between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” he murmured. Sherlock nodded so hard he only nearly missed clocking John in the chin.

So John did.

It was so soft, and warm, and Sherlock had no idea what to do, but to melt into the touch.

But then

_but then_

Sherlock remembered

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing with your foot?” John asked, and Sherlock realized that John had stopped kissing him, and he blinked.

“Foot?”

“It’s off the floor.” John said, gesturing with his eyes. Sherlock looked back, and indeed it was, knee bent at a perfect right angle, his foot was formed into a an excellent point, like ballet almost.

“I don’t mind," John added, "I mean I can keep you balanced, I just… wasn’t sure”

Sherlock spun his head back around to look at him. John’s ears were tinged pink, and Sherlock could see tears just starting to form in his eyes.

“It’s a good thing, John.” was all Sherlock could say.

“Good foot?” John asked.

“Good foot.” Sherlock nodded.

John grinned, and kissed him again. And again.

The foot had popped.

And Sherlock remembered.

It was all good.

**Author's Note:**

> ?????should I keep doing this????


End file.
